“Which Austin will simply go into the air all spraddled out,” says this pard. “If Austin sails up in the air an’ stays thar,” says Old Houston, “still you-all can gamble that this yere order goes.” “You hears,” says another, “Elder Peters when he tells of how a Mexican named Mohammed commands the mountain to come to him? But the mountain calls his bluff; that promontory stands pat, an’ Mohammed has to go to the mountain.” “My name’s Sam Houston an’ it ain’t Mo-hommed,” retorts Old Houston. “Moreover, Mohammed don’t have no written constitootion.” Nacherally, when Austin gets notice of Old Houston’s plan, that meetropolis r’ars back an’ screams. The faro-bank folks an’ the tavern folks is speshul malignant, an’ it ain’t no time before they-all convenes a meetin’ to express their views on Old Houston. Morton an’ Jedge Webb does the oratory. An’ you hear me! that assembly is shore sultry. Which the epithets they applies to Old Houston kills the grass for twenty rods about. Austin won’t move. Austin resolves to go to war first; a small army is organized with Morton in command to gyard the State House an’ the State books that a-way, an’ keep Old Houston from romancin’ over an’ packin’ ’em off a heap. Morton is talkin’ an’ Webb is presidin’ over this yere convocation--which the said meetin’ is that large an’ enthoosiastic it plumb chokes up the hall an’ overflows into the street--when all of a sudden a party comes swingin’ through the open winder from the top of a scrub-oak that grows alongside the buildin’, an’ drops light as a cat onto the platform with Morton an’ Webb. At this yere interruption, affairs comes to a halt, an’ the local sports turns in to consider an’ count up the invader. This gent who swoops through the winder is dark, big, bony an’ tall; his ha’r is lank an’ long as the mane of a hoss; his eyes is deep an’ black; his face, tanned like a Injun’s, seems hard as iron. He’s dressed in leather from foretop to fetlock, is shod with a pa’r of Comanche moccasins, an’ besides a ’leven inch knife in his belt, packs a rifle with a 48-inch bar’l. It will weigh twenty pounds, an’ yet this stranger handles it like it’s a willow switch. As this darksome gent lands in among Morton an’ Webb, he stands thar without sayin’ a word. Webb, on his part, is amazed, while Morton glowers. “Whatever do you-all regyard as a market price for your skelp?’” says Morton to the black interloper, at the same time loosenin’ his knife. The black stranger makes no reply; his hand flashes to his bowie, while his face still wears its iron look. Webb, some hurried, pushes in between Morton an’ the black stranger. Webb is more for peace an’ don’t believe in beginnin’ negotiations with a knife.